Thanks for the Memories
by TheRebelFlesh
Summary: John arrives home to an empty flat, or so he thinks. After searching everywhere for Sherlock, he finally finds him locked in the bathroom. And what he finds is not good. Very very not good. Will the boys' lives ever be the same again? RATED T for suicidal/dark themes as well as possible triggers. Will be Johnlock, but non-grphic (no smut). Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**So this is my 2nd Sherlock fanfiction, and I hope you enjoy. This one will be a bit darker, and I think it'll include Johnlock in the future. No smut though. Well then, read on and please review! Check out my other Sherlock story if you're interested too.**

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John struggled to open the door leading into the foyer of 221 Baker Street, hands slipping into his pocket, fishing for the keys whilst trying to juggle the numerous, bulging grocery bags and the umbrella shielding him from the torrential downpour. The walk _to _the store had been nice and peaceful, but it had poured the entire way back. He'd had no luck getting a cab in this weather either. So know he stood there, soaking and sopping wet with his coat pulled tightly around him and his collar turned up against the howling wind, drips from the umbrella falling onto his face and hands as the struggled to slip the key into the stubborn lock. Why couldn't Sherlock ever do the bloody shopping, he thought to himself as he finally opened the door with a sharp click.

After nearly slipping up the small step inside, John shoved the soaked umbrella into the stand by the door and began struggling up the steps to 221B, trying not to trip. Mrs. Hudson was away at her sister's place for the weekend, so he didn't have to worry about making too much noise. He shouted for Sherlock to help him out, but got no answer. Just like him. Can't bother to even answer. Cursing under his breath, John shoved open the door.

The flat looked empty when John walked in. Sherlock wasn't sprawled out on the couch, asleep or deep in his mind palace with his hands steepled under his chin and his eyes shut tight. Nor was he curled up in his favorite arm chair, reading, typing away on his laptop, or even watching crap telly (which John had sucked him into, much to his dismay). When John entered the kitchen to put the groceries away, he was surprised to see that Sherlock wasn't in his usual spot behind his microscope either. That was strange. He set the bag on the newly vacated table (there weren't any experiments on it at all, which stuck John as quite odd). He made his way down the hallway, and peeked inside Sherlock's room, hoping maybe he'd be in bed getting some much needed sleep. He wasn't really sure the last time his flatmate had slept properly, and was starting to get a bit worried about his health because despite what he might seem to think, he wasn't a machine. He wasn't in his room either. Now he could be worried. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, and checked for missed calls or texts. None. Sherlock almost always texted John if he was going to leave for a case without him, and Lestrade usually texted him if he had a case for Sherlock anyway. Come to think of it, Lestrade hadn't texted John about a case in a while. He decided to shoot a quick text to Lestrade, hoping that maybe they'd both just forgotten him, something Sherlock had done before.

**Do you know where Sherlock is? I can't find him anywhere.- JW**

His reply came back almost immediately.

**Nope. Haven't seen him in a while, no cases for him either. Sorry.-GL**

John sighed and shook his head. Now he was starting to panic. Where could Sherlock have run off to? He rarely took private cases, and John always knew those because they always came through the blog. So no case. He couldn't imagine that Sherlock was out at a pub somewhere, he wasn't really the drinking type and John had only seen him properly drunk once. He didn't go out with friends (considering John didn't think he had any except for the mutual ones they shared), so that couldn't be it either. Something in his gut clenched, and John hoped to God something bad hadn't happened. He hoped Sherlock hadn't be kidnapped by Moriarty or some other crazed criminal who hated his guts. Images of Sherlock lying in a puddle of his own blood in some alleyway or tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse somewhere flickered in front of his eyes, but he pushed them away. The flat wasn't in disarray so it didn't look like there could have been a struggle, and besides, he couldn't afford to think like that. He was just about to call Mycroft (something he didn't like to do often) and ask him if he had any idea where Sherlock was or where he might be, when he remembered he'd forgotten to check the bathroom. He knocked on the door lightly, calling out Sherlock's name. He tried the door knob, and found it locked from the inside. Not good.

In his examination of the flat, there was one crucial piece of evidence that John had missed. Four sealed envelopes, all bearing Sherlock's hurried, untidy scrawl. One labeled for John, Lestrade, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson each. They'd been laid out meticulously, almost ritualistically, in a straight line on the coffee table. When John finally managed to break down the bathroom door in a shower of splintered wood, he stopped dead in his tracks, and heart skipping what seemed like several beats. Because there was Sherlock, lying in a pool of his own blood, dead or very very close.

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***Gasp* How naughty to end the first chapter like that ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Wow, this chapter is the longest one I've ever written for anything. Warning for slight gore and mentions of drug use and child abuse. I got all the medical information from the internet, I'm certainly not a doctor so don't hate me if I'm wrong, and feel free to point out any mistakes in a review!**

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John's froze, staring at the sight before him. He mentally shook himself out of his momentary daze, and his medical training kicked in. He rushed over to Sherlock's unconscious form, which was propped up against the old clawfoot tub, and narrowly avoided slipping in the large pools of blood. This close up, he was able to get a good look at Sherlock's face. It was paler than usual and slightly sweaty, and his lips were blue. Hands trembling slightly, he leaned in and checked Sherlock's pulse at the neck. It took a few seconds longer than usual, but he eventually found it. It was weak and thready, but it was still there. The subtle rise and fall of Sherlock's chest confirmed he was still breathing on his own. John placed a hand at his chest, trying to feel for his heartbeat. He found it drumming heavily and much to quickly and irregularly. Turning his attention to the source of the bleeding, John noticed it was coming from Sherlock's arms. Hands shaking even more now, he picked up his flatmate's limp arm and turned it over, dreading what he suspected he was going to see. His suspicions were immediately confirmed. Sherlock's pale flesh was mangled by long, bone-deep slash marks. They extended up from his wrist, going well past the elbow. The cuts tore deeply into the muscles of his surprisingly ropey bicep. As John inspected the injures, he noticed Sherlock's other arm bore similar cuts, though they seemed slightly shallower. Now cursing wildly and letting out shaky breaths, he whipped out his mobile and dialed 999 and put his phone on speaker mode. He was immediately put in touch with an emergency responder who informed him an ambulance was on its way. John read the vitals he could glean from Sherlock of to her as well as giving her any possible diagnosis, and he busied himself by wrapping the length of Sherlock's arms in towels and apply pressure to the wounds. He then began CPR, not stopping until the paramedics arrived and took his place. He watched in a sort of trance as the paramedics loaded his best friend's limp and unresponsive body onto a stretcher, watched them take him down the stairs and into the ambulance parked outside. One of the paramedics, a young girl, informed him which hospital they'd be taking him to, and he thanked her in a shaky, quiet voice.

When everyone had gone, he collapsed on the sofa. His hands flew up to his face to massage his temples, but he was stopped when he felt wetness at his cheeks. He'd been crying and he hadn't even known it. Blinking through the tears, he was just about to jump up and get a cab to the A&E when he noticed, for the first time, four envelopes on the coffee table. He scooped up the four letters, and stuffed them in his pocket. He quickly washed the blood off his hands in the kitchen sink, and dashed down the stairs. Managing, thankfully, to get a cab in the weather, and he told the cabbie to step on it.

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When the cab finally arrived at the entrance to the A&E, John threw a wad of notes and the driver and mumbled for him to keep the change. A nurse pointed him towards the smallish waiting room, where he settled himself into one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs. He pulled out his phone and began texting Lestrade and Mycroft both, for he was in no state to be calling anyone.

**Sherlock's in the A&E, come if you can.-JW**

Mycroft both replied that they were on their way immediately, but didn't ask what was wrong. Suddenly, John thought of Mrs. Hudson. He left her a quick voicemail, leaving out all the details and simply telling her to call him back ASAP. With all the calls made, he sunk thankfully into the chair and buried his face in his hands. Her felt tears leaking slowly down his face. He was in shock, absolute shock. He tried thinking back on the last few days, tried to pinpoint Sherlock's behavior. There was nothing strange though, Sherlock hadn't acted at all out of the ordinary, hadn't acted any different even when John had seen him this morning. Had he been planning this, or was it a sort of spur of the moment idea? If Sherlock had been depressed and John hadn't even noticed, he was an awful friend...terrible.

John was roused out of his thoughts by Mycroft and Greg arriving in the waiting room. Both looked genuinely worried, though Mycroft was trying to hide it. They both stopped in front of him, waiting for him to speak.

"Tried to kill himself," John replied hoarsely, "I found him in the bathroom. He'd slit his wrists..."

Both men sank into their chairs, with now equally worried looks on their faces. Suddenly remembering the letters, John carefully pulled them from his pocket.

"He left these for you...They're his notes," John told them, holding out each of their respective envelopes.

Greg opened his envelope first. His hands trembled slightly as he unfolded the letter and began reading silently, a grim look on his face.

**_Lestrade,_**

**_We haven't always had the best relationship. I know that there were times when you hated me, I know there were times when you wanted to give up on me, and I know there were times when you used me for your own purposes. I'm not even sure if you truly cared about me, I hope you did though. So just in case you did, I'm writing this to you. When we met, I was at my lowest point. I was alone, addicted to the drugs that I hated but absolutely needed to survive. I despised the way they made me ordinary, the way people saw me as just another homeless junkie, another hopeless case, nothing more than that. But you saw something in me, something perhaps I didn't even see in myself. You gave me a chance when no one else would, you helped me get clean, helped me leave that part of me behind and find a new calling. And I've struggled every day with the pressure to go back to that life. It was easier. The drugs had helped numb me from the pain I felt every day, the pain others made me feel. But I didn't go back to that life, because, for some reason, I couldn't bare to have you ashamed of me. I didn't ever want to see that pitying look on your face that so many others had given me, I didn't want you to hate me, and I'm not really sure why. You saw something in me, you thought I was worth the effort. So thank you for getting me this far in my life, and for believing in me when no one else would._**

**_Sherlock_**

As he finished reading, Lestrade sighed tiredly and rubbed his temples, letting the letter drop into his lap. He had never heard anything so heartfelt from Sherlock, and he was sure that Sherlock never would have told him these things in person. Lestrade had always cared about Sherlock, cared for him like the son he never had. But he'd never expected any sort of reciprocation of those feelings. He'd always just assumed that Sherlock used him for the cases, that he didn't really matter to him. It truly hurt Lestrade that Sherlock thought, for even a moment, that Lestrade hadn't cared for him. He regarded John and Mycroft with a somber look, and motioned for Mycroft to open his letter. Mycroft carefully opened his letter and began reading it quickly.

_**Mycroft, **_

_**You must have seen this coming, I know you did. You must have know this was going to happen eventually, that you'd be reading my suicide note. Maybe it had been the day I came home bruised and bloody after getting into a fight on the first day of primary school. Maybe it was the day you found out about my drug use and self-harming. Maybe it came to you suddenly, as you watched me trudge off to school, dreading the awful day of bullying to come, or when you saw me alone and friendless for the millionth time. Either way, you knew, and you always tried to protect me in any way you could. You'd comfort me when I was little, ensure me that I wasn't the freak I thought I was. So thanks you for all the happy memories you were able to give me in such a short time. But they weren't enough. Eventually you left for school, you found a new life and new friends and never had time for you baby brother. You left me behind in the home that I hated with a father that abused me and the ghost of a mother who still seemed to haunt every corner of the house. At first, I hoped you'd come home, that you'd notice what father was doing to me now that you were gone. But you never did, so I suffered in silence and self-destructed, and I didn't let you help me at all. I pushed you away because it hurt to think about you, about how I was convinced that you abandoned me and hated me like everyone else. I can't blame you for wanting to stay away from the house that held so many terrible and sad memories, I would have left if I could as well. I never should have pushed you away, it wasn't your fault that you never found out about the abuse until I was seventeen when you found me half-dead after the most brutal beating in years. All the pain I felt over the years wasn't your fault. Nothing was ever really your fault, but I blamed you and I'm so sorry. I ruined our relationship on my own, I shouldn't have pushed you away, and I have regretted it every day since. I made it so that our relationship could never be repaired, its my fault. I'm sorry. **_

_**Sherlock**_

John thought he noticed tears welling in Mycroft's eyes as he read the note. When he finished, Mycroft bit his lip and folded the paper carefully, storing it in his waistcoat pocket. He buried his face in his hands and stared at the floor as he tried to keep his shoulders from shaking when the tears began running freely down his cheeks. Finally, hands shaking, John opened his own letter and began reading...

_**Dear John, **_

_**I don't quite know what to say in this letter, so I suppose I'll just start from the beginning. My entire life, I've been hated for my intelligence, for my talents. People lashed out at me because they were afraid of what I could do, what I could know and understand about them from one look. They were disgusted by the things that interested me. People were cruel, I learned that from a very early age. People always left, always abandoned me, always hurt me. But then you came along and changed everything. I've never told anyone this, but I was planning to kill myself the day we first met at Bart's. I was going to finish my final experiment, and then I was going to go back to my cheap bedsit and finish it. I was ready, I had been for a very long time. Everything was so meaningless, there was nothing in my life that really truly mattered to me. Nobody in my life cared enough to notice how I felt. But then Mike came along with you in tow, and I knew from the start there was something different about you. The way you reacted to my deductions, the way your lips didn't curl up into a sneer the way so many other's do. You weren't outraged, you weren't angry, you didn't lash out angrily the moment I finished. You just stood there. I thought to myself that maybe you'd be different than all the rest. It didn't really matter what day I chose to end it? What was one more day in my already doomed existence? If my suspicions weren't right about you, if you weren't special, I could just end it when you were gone. What was one more painful rejection, one more hurtful comment? I had nothing to lose. So I met you, and I was so goddamn hopeful that you'd stay because no one else ever did. But I was right. You were different, you were special. You didn't hate me, you found me brilliant. You complimented me, something no one had ever done. You shot a man after knowing me for less than a day, and trusted me even though I was probably the least trustworthy person imaginable. And so I got better, day by day. You made me want to be better. You gave me hope that maybe humanity wasn't so cruel after all, that maybe emotions and friendship weren't so useless. You gave me the confidence to hold my head high, knowing that you would always be there to catch me when I fell. But nothing is eternal, and eventually the depression I've fought and struggled against my entire life reared its ugly head and all the thoughts I'd repressed came rushing back. Everything I had built with you came crashing down around me, and I couldn't do anything to stop it The world was spinning out of control. I had hoped that your friendship would be enough to keep me anchored, to stop me from floating away again. I was wrong. I needed something more, something I knew you'd never give me. A feeling I knew you'd never reciprocate because you made it clear to others many times. But it doesn't matter anymore, nothing does. So here we are, on the last page. I just want to say that I'm sorry John. Sorry that couldn't hold it together anymore, sorry that I dragged you into this mess. I'm sorry you couldn't save me this time like you've saved me before. I'm sorry it had to end this way. **_

_**Ever yours,**_

_**Sherlock**_

Tears dripped on the papers as he finished reading, smudging the ink. John set the letter on his lap and wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand. The three men all shared a look of utter and complete defeat and sadness. No one spoke. Greg and John just clutched their letters in their hands, and Mycroft watched the door to the that lead to the A&E with misty eyes, fiddling idly with his umbrella. Every second that passed seemed like a minute, every minute an hour. The waiting was torturous, not knowing what condition Sherlock was in. Not knowing if he had was even alive. A doctor could walk through the doors any minute and tell them he was gone. Eventually, John got a call from Mrs. Hudson. Excusing himself, he walked out into the courtyard outside to take the call. He made sure Mrs. Hudson was sitting down before he broke the news to her in a tired voice that was hoarse from disuse. He could hear her sniffling on the other end of the line, and she assured him that she would be on her way back to London on the first train, and that she would be home by morning. He neglected to mention the note addressed to her, which still resided in his jacket pocket. No need to upset her further. She treated Sherlock like he was her son, and seemed to be one of the only people capable of putting up with his antics and eccentricities. He walked back into the waiting room just as a doctor stepped through the doors at the end of the room, motioning for Mycroft, Greg, and himself to come along.

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The doctor lead them into a small conference room, a room doctors used to break difficult news to friends and family members of patients. They all took a seat and the doctor began. Sherlock was in critical Stage IV hemorrhage and had lost a nearly half his total blood volume. As John had dreaded, but ultimately expected, Sherlock had gone into severe cardiac arrest from the blood loss. He'd been resurrected in the ambulance on the way to the hospital, as well as several times in the A&E. At this point, John began zoning out. He knew the survival rates on cardiac arrest as severe as Sherlock's. Only 15% survived the ambulance ride, 60% died within 24 hours, less than a 50% chance of surviving to discharge. Overall a 7% chance of survival. Even if Sherlock survived, he could have severe neurological damage. He might never be the same. Even if was strong enough to survive, even if he regained full function and control over his body, they would have to deal with all the psychological repercussions that came with a suicide attempt. He'd stay in the ICU for the next 24 hours, and would be moved to a private room if he survived long enough. Finally, the doctor finished and let Mycroft know that all family members would be allowed to visit for a few minutes each, one at a time. But Mycroft was able to convince the staff to allow John to see Sherlock, even though he wasn't family. Probably paid them off with a sizable donation to the hospital. A kind-faced nurse led John through the ICU, past the other patient's beds. They finally came to stop at the last bed in the long hallway. Sherlock was lying limply in the bed, totally unresponsive. He was a mess, tangled in wires that led to all sorts of monitors to keep track of his vitals. IV and blood, as well as pain medication and sedatives, dripped into his body. He was now on a respirator as well. John sat down heavily in the small chair by the bed. He placed a shaking hand on Sherlock's pale one, careful not to disturb the IV line. He gripped the hand tightly, hoping that perhaps Sherlock could feel him there somehow. He traced the calloused lines of his friend's palm when he suddenly remembered the some of the last few lines of his best friend's note.

"I needed something else. Something I knew you'd never give me. A feeling I knew you'd never reciprocate...," John whispered in disbelief, quiet enough so that no one but himself and the unconscious man lying before him could hear.

He realized, in that moment, that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes was in love with him. That he had been for months, maybe even since the day they first met. He remembered, horrified, every time he'd protested against comments of their being a couple. How many times he'd insisted he wasn't gay in full earshot of Sherlock. How often he went on dates with women who didn't really matter, who he knew he was never going to have a true relationship with. It was crystal clear now.

John leaned in close to Sherlock, clutching his hand tightly, and whispered "I love you," praying silently with tears in his eyes, that somewhere in the depths of his unconsciousness, the great love of his life could hear him, and understand that there was always hope, even when everything seemed hopeless.

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***gasp again* Will Sherlock survive, and if by some miracle, he does, will things ever be the same between the two friends? **

**As always, please leave a review :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**New update guys! I'm really enjoying writing this, so I hope you all enjoy it too. Again, all medical info is from the internet, I'm trying to make it as legit as possible, so if something is wrong, please feel to point it out!**

**I don't own Sherlock, duh. **

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It had been 16 hours since Sherlock had been admitted to the hospital. Since John had found him lying in a pool of his own blood...Sherlock's condition was still stable, but officially comatose now. Since he'd been moved to the ICU, Sherlock'd been taken for several different scans. CTs and MRIs and EEGs. All trying to map out his brain function, trying to figure out where the damage was, trying to decide if he'd ever regain consciousness. The cardiac arrest had taken its toll on Sherlock's body, and had deprived his brain of oxygen for a significant amount of time. From the scans, the doctors had gleaned that the damage was most severe at his brain stem, the one of the worst possible area. Responsible for consciousness, breathing, everything needed to sustain life. It would take a miracle for Sherlock to wake up on his own. So John just sat there, not really sure what to do with himself. He couldn't leave, couldn't bear the thought of even leaving the waiting room. It did give him a lot of time to think though. Because he had realized something, something incredibly important. He loved Sherlock. Loved him in every way possible, loved him more than anyone or anything. He'd fallen in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once. These past few months for John...they'd been incredible. The best of his life. He'd been happy, he'd laughed. He'd helped people, saved lives. There had always a spark between him and Sherlock, he'd know it from the start. Had that connection always been romantic? Had he spent the past several months slowly falling in love with every aspect of his flatmate, and not even noticed it? Every single day growing closer to his epiphany? He was so sure now. He was in love, real, true love the likes of which he'd never felt. They were soul mates, even though it sounded corny. Every action and decision in both of their lives had pushed them closer and closer to each other. So John kept on hoping that Sherlock would wake up. That they'd be together in the end. That John would see his smile that always lit up the room because of how rare they were. That he would hear his deep, rich laugh. That John would be able to tell Sherlock how much he loved him...

Mrs. Hudson arrived a few hours later, worry shining in her eyes. She rushed across the room as fast as possible and gingerly sat down in the chair next to him. John explained Sherlock's condition to her in a quiet, calm voice. Tears leaked down the sweet old woman's cheeks as John broke the news to her as gently as possible. Sherlock may never wake up. He had a really hard time saying it himself, he didn't want to believe it to be true. Soon Mrs. Hudson began fussing over John, as usual. She tried to convince John to go back to the flat and get a little rest, or at least go down to the hospital cafe for something to eat. She would be there for Sherlock, and would call John if anything happened. John agreed only to make Mrs. Hudson feel better, just to make her feel happy. He got up apprehensively terrified that Sherlock would be gone when he came back, and was about to leave when he remembered the letter. He fished it out of his pocket and handed it to Mrs. Hudson. She took it from it and held it close to her heart, shooing him off.

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Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks as she held the letter. Sherlock was like a son to her. He'd actually saved her life. Her husband...he hadn't been a very good person. She'd married young, unaware of what a monster he was. He was abusive, and he hurt her fairly often. She'd been stuck in that terrible marriage for so many long years. But then Sherlock had come along. She smiled softly to herself at the first memory of the young man. It had been nearly five years ago, in the middle of the coldest winter in years. She'd just come home from doing some shopping when she noticed a him walking down the street with no coat on, shivering against the biting cold and thin as ever. She'd immediately stopped what she was doing and pulled him inside for a cup of tea and a nice warm fire. He'd smiled softly and rather shyly at her as he fussed over him, grabbing an old wool jumper that had belonged to her husband from the closet and insisting he wear it. All the while bemoaning her husband's predicament. He was on holiday in Florida, of all places, and had gotten himself arrested on suspected murder charges. But there wasn't much evidence against him, and it was looking like he'd be on his way back to England. But she'd been sure he was guilty, and was absolutely terrified at the prospect of him coming home. When she finally sat down to drink her own tea, Sherlock explained in a soft, surprisingly deep voice that he might be able to help her with that little problem. One week later, her husband had been convicted and sentenced to death, and she honestly couldn't have been more relieved. From that moment, she'd know that she would have done anything for the young man. When the tenants of 221B moved out, she'd immediately gotten a hold of Sherlock and offered it to him. She loved having him around, even though he drove her up the wall with the shooting and the body parts in the fridge and the violin in the middle of the night. She chuckled softly to herself as all the memories flooded back to her. She took the letter in her hands again, tracing the creases in the paper. She opened the letter carefully and began reading.

**Dear Mrs. Hudson, **

**Thank you so much for everything you've done for me. You've put up with me for some five years now, and I couldn't be more thankful. The day you showed me true kindness for no reason at all, and in our years of knowing each other, you've become one of the few people to show me such kindness. To show me that not everyone hates me. So thank you. Maybe I haven't always liked to admit it, but I have truly enjoyed our time together. You've become a mother to me, a figure I've lacked since the age of six, and I became the son you never had but always wanted. I've always wanted to make you proud of me, and I hope I succeeded, even if it was for such a short amount of time. You've been there for me, you gave me a home. You put up with all my...eccentricities and never stopped caring for me. I'm so so sorry it had to end this way.**

**Thanks for everything,**

**Sherlock**

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John finally arrived back at the flat after a long, silent cab ride. He slipped the key into the lock, thankful it wasn't raining this time. Less than 24 hours ago, John had been walking up the steps, calling out to Sherlock. He'd actually been _angry_ at him. He hadn't know that Sherlock had been slowly bleeding out at that very moment. He'd give absolutely anything to walk into the flat and see Sherlock sprawled out on the couch on his fifth day of sleeplessness. Or staring intently into his microscope, ignoring John completely. Or sawing away violently at his violin. Anything to have Sherlock here, alive and well, rather than lying lifeless in the hospital bed. He ran his fingers along the rough wallpaper of the landing right before the steps. He flashed back to the day they first met, right after they arrived back to Baker Street after chasing the cab. A ghost of a smile crossed his lips at the memory of them laughing together. He opened the door to the eerie silence of their flat. He warmed himself up some food, thankful there were no stray body parts in the fridge. After he was done eating (he hadn't even know he was hungry), he walked down the hallway, remembering the mess in the bathroom. He grabbed a stack of towels and began cleaning up the bloodstains on the tiled floor. In his cleaning, he came across the blade that Sherlock had used and promptly tossed it in the bin. He shoved the newly bloodied towels into a trash bag, stiffly getting to his feet and tossing the bag into the bins outside. He made his way up to his bed, and gratefully sank into it. He fell asleep almost immediately, and dreamed of Sherlock.

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**Who caught the John Green reference there? I feel the quote actually works perfectly with this fic and really the entire Johnlock relationship. Well then, thanks for reading, and as always, please review! I hope to update soon!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Another new update?! I just can't stop writing this story, and I've had nothing better to do, so here you go! Again, never dealt with any of the medical aspects personally, so if any of you have any input or personal experience, feel free to comment or PM me! I hope you guys all enjoy this next shocking installment *GASP***

**I obviously don't own Sherlock...I don't know why I should have to say this.**

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Two months. Sixty days. Eighty-seven thousand six hundred and fifty-eight minutes. Each and every one of them torture for John Watson. Every day was the same. Wake up. Coffee. More coffee. Work. Visit Sherlock. Sleep. He lived with his phone glued to his hand, forever awaiting the call from the hospital that would shatter his heart. Visiting him was always the hardest. He went every day without fail, and stayed as long as he could. He'd hold his best friend's hand tightly and tell him about his day. Tell him that his legions of fans were praying for his full recovery, that they left messages on the blog every day even though John had stopped updating it. Sometimes, when it all became to much for him to bear, he would whisper in Sherlock's ear how much he loved him, how much he needed him to wake up. He'd plead on deaf ears for hours on end, whispering and praying at his friend's side. Mrs. Hudson visited nearly as often. She'd fuss over Sherlock as usual, flattening his wild curls against his forehead, fluffing his pillows and straightening his blankets. Then she'd pull up a chair to his bedside, and begin knitting or read him one of his favorite books with her hand placed atop his. Sometimes he thought Mrs. Hudson knew how he felt, but she never said a word. Lestrade would pop in from time to time, getting updates on Sherlock's condition. Once John swore he'd heard Lestrade telling Sherlock about a case from the other side of the door. Even Molly had visited several times. She'd tell Sherlock about all the interesting bodies that came though the morgue, all the ones he would have loved to help her autopsy. Sometimes she'd smile as fond memories passed before her eyes. She knew that Sherlock must have felt bad about the horrible things he'd said to her, and she knew he cared about her, though he would refuse to admit it. Mycroft visited considerably less often, but John understood he had a lot of work. He'd taken it upon himself to manage his brother's condition on top of his incredibly stressful job, though he knew John was always more than willing to help him out. When he came around, he never stayed long, but John knew that he held his brother's hand, that he'd whisper to him as well. Sometimes John thought he saw tears in the ice man's eyes. It was obvious that Mycroft really cared about Sherlock. He'd been much more emotional since reading the letter Sherlock had left for him, John could tell. He often wondered what could have been in that letter to have brought forth such a change in their relationship. But John never brought it up, never asked what had been written because that was between Mycroft and Sherlock. None of the others had ever revealed the contents of their letters either, so John kept his new feelings hidden. They ate him up inside every day. If he'd realized his true feelings for Sherlock just a little sooner, maybe he'd be okay. Maybe he wouldn't have done this to himself, maybe he could have held on. John hated being in the hospital, but he hated being in the flat more. It was so quiet, and every corner was filled with memories. Happy ones. Sad ones. Ones that haunted his nightmares. He'd dream about that goddamn day constantly, he'd see Sherlock's limp body covered in blood. He'd wake up with his best friend's name tumbling from his lips. Sometimes he cried, but he never cried in front of anyone else. Always the soldier...

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The days went on and on, always the same. John got worse and worse and Sherlock didn't change at all. Around the two and a half month mark, a decision had to be made. Should they pull the plug? It was the hardest decision of all, in John's opinion. For anyone to deal with. Of course, Mycroft had the final say in the matter as Sherlock's only family, but John knew that he would take other opinions to heart. When Sherlock's doctor had asked the question, John had seen Mycroft truly and completely overwhelmed for the first time. He saw the look of fear and doubt flash across his face, saw the cold eyes glass over with stubborn tears that refused to be shed. The doctor assured them they could take as long as they needed to make the decision, and had left the room quietly. So Mycroft and John sat there in silence. They both knew what the right decision was. As apathetic and downright lazy Sherlock could be, he lived for the cases. He lived to chase criminals down the dark alleys of London with John in tow. He lived to show off his intelligence to anyone that would listen. Sherlock had never made the decision on his own, but Mycroft and John both knew he wouldn't want to live like this, trapped inside a body he couldn't control. It took a while, tears were shed by both parties (in private of course), but they eventually came to the same conclusion. They had to take Sherlock off life support.

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John broke the news to Mrs. Hudson gently. She shook her head tiredly, and nearly broke down sobbing. She knew it was the right decision, but she didn't want to see her boy gone. But she knew that Sherlock would have hated to be caged inside his body. He had to be free. John broke the news to Lestrade and Molly as well. Lestrade gave him a sad look, but understood the decision. Molly pretended that she wasn't crying. But they all accepted the decision. John would make a blog post after he was gone, telling the rest of the world of the death of the world's only consulting detective. News would spread fast, and the fans would be sad. Some people would probably be happy to see him gone. But eventually, the day came around. John was ready. He had been for nearly three months now. He was ready to whisper his last goodbyes to his best friend, his soul mate, his love. And so the four recipients of Sherlock's last words stood huddled in his hospital room, gripping each other's hands for support, waiting as the nurse and doctor worked to unhook Sherlock from the machines. John sat by his love's side, closing his eyes and holding Sherlock's hand the whole time. First they took out the IV lines and nutrition drips that had kept him alive. Then they removed the heart-lung machine that had kept his organs functioning. Finally they removed the ventilator from his throat, and John knew that it would all be over soon. He waited for the blaring tone that signaled Sherlock's heart finally stopping. Waited for Mrs. Hudson to come to his side and pull him gently away. But nothing happened, time seemed to stand still. Still holding the hand, John cracked open his eyes and took in the sight before him. Sherlock's heart monitor was still blipping steadily. His chest rose and fell with breaths taken by his own lungs. The four most important people in Sherlock's whole world watched on awestruck. Sherlock was still alive. Still fighting against all odds. Tears welling in his eyes, he brought Sherlock's hand up to his face and kissed it gently. He leaned in to whisper in his best friend's ear, but was stopped when he felt the long, thin finger he'd missed so much curl loosely around his own...

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**Guys...I legit almost started crying while writing this! I'm giving myself feels...Well, as always, please leave a review!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks for all the amazing reviews and for all your support!**

**Sorry in advance, this chapter is a bit shorter than the rest but I wanted to get an update in. Hope you all enjoy**!

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When he'd felt Sherlock stirring, John had been so sure of what the future held. So sure that he would wake up and things would go back to being exactly like they used to. They would move back to Baker Street. Sherlock would continue playing the violin, fighting crime, and annoying John. John would keep blogging and putting up with Sherlock insanity. But John was also sure that he was going to tell Sherlock his feelings, and he was absolutely positive that Sherlock would feel the same. He knew from the moment he felt those fingers wrap around his that Sherlock and him would get their chance to grow old together. Maybe there would be marriage, maybe there would be children. But there would be undeniable happiness. He was wrong.

Sherlock did, of course, wake up. Everything seemed fine for the first few minutes. His eyes opened, the beautiful eyes that John thought he would never get to see before, and he looked around the room. The doctor and nurse took over immediately, checking his pupils, reflexes, and movements. Everything seemed perfectly normal. He was awake, perhaps a bit confused, but that was understandable. He smiled softly at both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. When he turned to face Mycroft, he made a cutting comment about his brother's weight in a croaking voice. A wide smile spread across Mycroft's face, despite the jab. If Sherlock was already insulting Mycroft, only minutes after waking, everything was going to be fine. John chuckled softly, alerting Sherlock to his presence in the room. When Sherlock turned to look at John, he had an absolutely blank expression on his face. John looked up hopefully, eyes shining with unshed tears of happiness.

Sherlock turned back to his brother, and asked in a choppy voice, "Who's this?"

Who's this. The words cut through John like a knife. This wasn't happening. This couldn't possibly be happening. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged confused and worried glances.

Mycroft moved to be at Sherlock's side, and placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, "Do you know who this is Sherlock?", he asked softly, motioning to John.

Sherlock turned back to John, studying his face for a minute before finally speaking up, "No...I'm really sorry but I don't really understand..."

It was all too much for John. He jumped up immediately and left the the room. He ran down the hallways until he couldn't run anymore. Finally, he sank down to the floor with his head in his hands. This wasn't happening. He was dreaming, that's it. Sherlock could never forget him...

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Amnesia. That is what it took to break John Watson. John had nothing now, just an empty flat and an empty life. He didn't even have the frequent hospital visits to occupy his time. He still visited every so often, but they were always so awkward. Sherlock had lost the past six months of his waking memory. In those six months, he'd met John and fallen in love with him. Sherlock knew John was important to him, he just couldn't remember why. He felt terrible about it, but he didn't know what to do, he didn't know how to ease John's obvious pain. The doctors assured them both that there was still hope, that through therapy and other techniques they stood a good chance of unlocking the memories he'd lost.

Sherlock stayed in the hospital for a couple more weeks for physical rehabilitation. It was difficult, strenuous work, but eventually Sherlock got better. Amnesia seemed to be the only lasting effect. Soon it was time for discharge, the day that John had both dreaded and been hoping for. John was supposed to be happy. Sherlock was alive, and was going home. He'd dreamed about this moment for months, expecting it to never come. But he wasn't sure he could bear seeing Sherlock walk into Baker Street, not remembering everything that had gone on there, all the incredible memories. They'd had no luck in recovering the memories so far, but the doctors were still optimistic. They thought that perhaps being with John in 221B would illicit spontaneous memory recovery. Reading John's blog might help him as well. So John was still hopeful that Sherlock would remember...

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**So yeah...hope you all enjoyed it! Please leave a review!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for not updating, I've been really busy :(**

**I hope you all enjoy this next installment!**

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There was a small part of John that had hoped Sherlock would remember everything the moment he stepped into 221B. He knew how stupid it was, how naive it was of him, but it hadn't stopped him from believing it. Nothing changed when the got home though. Sherlock just stood in the middle of the sitting room, staring blankly at the things he knew belonged to him, but not remembering the time when he had moved them to Baker Street. But there were so many things he didn't remember about the flat. He didn't understand why the Cluedo board was skewered to the wall with a kitchen knife because he didn't remember that he and John had enjoyed many a bored night playing the eternally frustrating game. He didn't remember watching crap telly with John while eating take out. He didn't remember all the happy times they shared together. Sherlock's memory was one of the things he prided himself most on. His mind palace was meticulously organized, and he never forgot anything unless he wanted to. But now there were so many things he couldn't find in the tangled mess, so many missing puzzle pieces. He'd spent many a sleepless night in his hospital room deep in his mind palace, wandering around and hoping to come across the doors that unlocked his old memories. He found nothing. Finally, he closed his eyes and crossed the room, collapsing on the sofa, head in his hands, as John watched with sad eyes from the doorway. He couldn't imagine how hard this was on Sherlock, but he wasn't sure what to do about it. He didn't know how to comfort the man without it being awkward and making Sherlock feel even worse. He settled on making some tea, picking the kettle off the still cluttered kitchen table. He smiled softly to himself as he poured the second cup. He never thought he'd be making tea for the two of them again. Even if Sherlock didn't remember him, he was still alive, still mostly whole. He set the cup on the coffee table, and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, giving him an encouraging smile. He crossed the room, making a small fire before sinking gratefully into his favorite chair. He pulled out his laptop, frowning slightly as he began writing the blog post he'd been dreading. He still had yet to inform Sherlock's fan base of his condition. He hadn't made a post since Sherlock had woken up because he hadn't for the life of him know what to write. As he typed away, he would look up occasionally to check on Sherlock, who was had yet to touch his tea. Finally, after reading over the post several times, he clicked the submit button, peeking over the edge of his laptop, only to see Sherlock's intense eyes staring back at him. Averting his eyes, he turned back to his blog, watching the hit counter climb and the comment section flooding with questions and concerned remarks. He waited a few minutes before speaking up.

"Um, the doctors thought it would be a good idea if you read my blog posts, since they were all about the cases you solved and about us too...so if your interested, just...," he spoke up, trailing off while motioning awkwardly to his laptop.

He got a fraction of a nod in return as Sherlock started off into nothingness. The consulting detective got up suddenly, making his way across the room to the bookcase and sliding out several hard-bound volume.

"Well, um, I'm going to go out and do some shopping. I'll be back later, okay?" John called out to Sherlock as he shrugged on his coat and grabbed his keys. Not even a response this time, John thought to himself sadly.

The progress over the next few weeks was essentially non-existent. If anything, Sherlock was getting worse. The flat was always so quiet now, seeing as Sherlock hardly ever spoke, and only made noises of agreement or disagreement when John asked him direct questions. He grew thinner than ever as John was increasingly unable to force food on the wraith-like man. He never played the violin anymore either or slept anymore for that matter. He'd just spend his days and nights lingering on the sofa, doing experiments, or else running around London when he got a case from Lestrade. But never with John. He'd leave the flat in a rush some mornings, to head down to the morgue at Bart's or Scotland Yard. All the places he and John had always gone to together. He couldn't say that he didn't miss it though. As much as he'd always complained about Sherlock never giving him a chance to sleep or eat during cases, he missed chasing criminals through London more than anything. Mycroft had been right, he missed the war, even if the one he had grown accustomed to had been one of a different sort. And now his life was just like it had been before Sherlock had come around, dull, boring, and pointless. But now he was tortured every day, seeing his once best friend revert back into his cold shell. He was no longer the man that made him laugh and smile, the one who filled his life some sort of meaning. Sherlock wasn't the man he loved anymore. That man had been lost when Sherlock forgot every moment that had made him that man...

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John was almost ready to give up. He had given it three months. There had been no progress, no memory recovery, nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sherlock just kept regressing back into the severely anti-social, manic-depressive shell of a man he'd been before he'd met John. John got worse as well, falling back into his own depression. Everyone could see it happening, see the toll this whole mess was taking on the both of them, but they couldn't do anything to help. John had to get out while he could, had to leave this life behind. It was useless. He'd wasted half a year waiting for Sherlock to return to him. He'd waited long enough. There wasn't anything left for him here, nothing but sad memories of the man he'd once loved. He'd made his decision. He had to move out, he had to move on because the exciting life that he'd written about for his blog was over. It was a thing of the past. Maybe he'd start attending sessions with Ella again, or find another therapist. Anything to escape the depression that he could feel curling around him once again.

He found himself a relatively cheap apartment across London, a little closer to the new surgery he'd taken up a job at. He'd quit working at the surgery with Sarah months ago, even before Sherlock had woken up. She constantly reminded him of Sherlock. He was finally leaving this life behind. He was going to go back to being John Watson, an ordinary man with an ordinary job. Nothing would happen to him, nothing would be as exciting as the time he had spent with Sherlock. Maybe he would start dating again, maybe he'd get married and have children. He would live the life he'd been expected to live, nothing more and nothing less.

He told Mrs. Hudson the morning after he found the apartment. She hadn't been happy to see John go, but she understood. She made him promise to visit whenever he was around, and he agreed, smiling slightly. He climbed the steps to 221B for what was probably going to be the last time. Most of the things in the flat belonged to Sherlock anyway, all the furniture, the books, the appliances, basically everything. It wouldn't take John long to pack up his belongings. He opened up the door, and scanned the room, finding Sherlock sprawled out on the sofa yet again. He cleared his throat, trying to get the apathetic man's attention. Realizing Sherlock was probably asleep, he walked over to the sofa and prodded the man's shoulder, hoping to wake him. His eyes snapped open as John's fingertips brushed his shirt.

"What do you want?" Sherlock snapped, voice hoarse from disuse.

"I just though I'd let you know that I'm...um...moving out. I found a new place across town and I'll be leaving tomorrow morning. Just thought I'd let you know so you can try and find a new flatmate if you need one...," John explained, trailing off slightly.

Sherlock's lips pursed at the statement and he hummed in ascension, barely concealing the sadness that flitted across his eyes. John nodded stiffly, and went up to his room to begin packing. Sherlock heard the door to John's bedroom close, and with that he rather painfully brought himself up into a sitting position. His joints were stiff and sore from being in the same position for so long. He buried his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his knotted hair. He couldn't believe it, didn't want to. John was leaving. He was really giving up on this. He aimed a wild kick at the coffee table, knocking it over and spilling cold tea all over the carpet. He hated this. All of this. He hated his stupid brain for denying him access to the memories. He hated himself for forgetting John. He hated his transport. He hated everything. He grabbed one of the throw pillows from the sofa and buried his face in it, screaming. That was all he wanted to do now. He screamed into the pillow until his throat was raw. He screamed until he couldn't scream anymore. Finally, he curled up, hugging the pillow to his chest and sobbing silently, shoulder shaking and chest heaving. That night, he cried himself asleep. Again.

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He woke up after what could only have been a few hours. The orange light from the street lamps outside filtered through the curtains and sent fractured beams throughout the room. He uncurled himself from his position and fumbled blindly through for his phone to check the time. Midnight. He sighed heavily, only a few more hours until John left for good. He couldn't sleep anymore anyway. He got up stiffly, moving across the room to stand in front of the bookcase. His fingers slipped across the spines of the books. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, just savoring the feeling of the paper and leather against his fingertips. He came to a stop at the end of the shelf as his fingers hit a bump. Narrowing his eyes, he plucked out a manilla folder. He sat in his old armchair and slipped the papers out of the folder. Several pieces of hand-written sheet music slipped through his fingers as he dumped the contents out onto his lap. He ran his thin fingers across the lines, flipping though the pages until he found the title of the piece he must have been working on before he lost his memory. He traced the title, written in his own handwriting, with his fingers. For John. He jumped up suddenly to grab his violin from it's perch on his bedroom windowsill.

He stood by the window in the sitting room, the polished wood of his violin familiar against his fingers. He lifted the instrument to his chin, and began playing the piece that lay on his newly recovered music stand. The playing came back to him easily, despite the fact that he hadn't played in months. The piece was...different. Not sad and slow like the usual pieces he wrote. No...this was almost...happy...like being in love...

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John was woken up in the middle of the night by a sharp prod to the shoulder. Grumbling and heaving himself up into a sitting position, he was shocked to see Sherlock's face only inches from his own. Sherlock's hand reached up, shaking slightly, and placed it on John's cheek. He leaned in ever so slowly before kissing John softly and slowly on the lips.

Pulling away and resting his forehead on John's, smiling as he spoke up in a soft, deep voice, "How could I ever forget this?"

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**:) HAPPY TIMES! Hope you all enjoyed! Please review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for not updating :( I've just been really busy and this chapter didn't come as easily, which is why it is regrettably so short (sorry in advance but this chapter is still pretty sweet and basically the only happy one!). Anyways, thanks for reading** **and I hope you enjoy!**

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John woke up early the next morning to the bright sun streaming through the open window and, curiously, arms wrapped tightly around his waist. He craned his neck to look over his shoulder, only to see Sherlock, whose face was buried in his neck. He sighed happily, totally and utterly relieved. So last night really had happened, it hadn't just been a dream. He gently pried the arms away and turned around in time to see the detective's eyes flutter open.

"Morning," John whispered, smile on his face.

Sherlock smiled back at him and leaned in for another kiss, hand coming up from under the blankets to rest on John's exposed neck, and this time John kissed him back, burying his hands in Sherlock's untamed bed-head and moving his own hand to rest on Sherlock's.

"So last night...what happened?"

"I started playing the violin, something I composed for you a before...you know, and it all just came back to me. I remember everything now," Sherlock said, smiling.

In that moment, everything was so perfect. The way Sherlock's head was tilted slightly inward, almost touching John's forehead, the way it rested on John's pillow, and how the slim hand felt against his neck. The way his dark hair was mused, sticking up in every direction and catching the morning light, bringing out the brownish undertones. The way his eyes sparkled as they caught the light as well, making them the most clear, perfect blue-green. But the smile was the best. He hadn't seen Sherlock smile like this in such a long time. He was more relaxed and more at ease than John had ever seen him, certainly not the tense, standoffish man of the past few months, or the lifeless body in the icy white hospital that used to haunt John's nightmares. So they lay there in the bed, staring into each other's eyes and holding hands, completely caught up in the beautiful moment and never ever wanting to let go.

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**The End? Maybe?**

**I had a great time writing this, but I'm not really sure what is left to do here. If anyone had any suggestions about where to go from here, please PM me. I might just end this one and start a Johnlock drabble dump about all the fluffy romantic stuff, maybe a sort of sequel to this. **

**PLEASE REVIEW :D And thanks for reading!**


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